


Hope on Fire

by dragongirlG



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Modern Steve Rogers, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, code-switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: After the fall of the Triskelion, the Asset hides in the streets of Washington, D.C. and encounters a skinny blonde man named Steve who nearly kills himself defending the Asset from a handler. The Asset takes up Steve's offer on a place to stay for the night, and with the help of Steve and his friends, he begins to recover his identity, his autonomy, and the life that HYDRA stole from him for seventy years.





	Hope on Fire

He is the Asset. He is the Winter Soldier. He is—

_Sasha._

Natashenka. Black Widow. One of a group of girls. _En pointe,_ ballet, strike, guard, parry. Red hair and bright eyes, a body full of grace and poison, delicate fingers curled around a knife, a gun, a wire. A weapon that would never bear life.

 _You could at least remember me_ , she’d whispered in his ear. _We were lovers, once._

He does not remember being lovers. She is a _traitor_ , he thinks distantly, though he cannot explain why. She is a _target_.

She’d ambushed him on the helicarrier, wrapping her thighs around his throat as she’d disabled his metal arm. One electrical bite, two, three. The shocks had been enough to distract him, not to mention the garrote wire she’d been wrapping around his neck. He’d thrown her off, falling down a level from the momentum. A tranquilizing arrow from Hawkeye had struck him in the thigh, and then another had hit his flesh arm; the sharp piercing, more than the drug, had made him fall to the floor of the helicarrier, and he had watched the Widow scramble upward to the control center and insert the chip. After that, the helicarrier had exploded in a burst of noise and fire and metal.

The Asset had had enough sense to roll himself out of the way of falling steel beams, forcing the arrows deeper into his flesh as he watched Iron Man pluck the Widow out of the air.  All he knew then was the sensation of falling, gravity dragging him down, down, down until he dropped into the river. With both of his arms disabled and the rest of his body weighed down by weapons, there was little he could do against the current.

For a moment, while he lay in the water, he watched the sunlight flickering across the surface. Calm settled over him as he sank slowly to the bottom. The water was cold, but not icy like the cryotube ( _freezing numbness panic)_ and this way, he could choose his means of dying. No more wipes, no more lightning, no more cleaning and feeding and needles. Just the slow fade of unconsciousness and the comforting weight of the water. Hydra would lose its Asset, but he did not care. The Asset was…

The Asset was _tired_.

The roar of a jet had startled him out of his stupor. He could not hide. They would find him. The handlers, which would mean punishment, and if not them, the Avengers, which would mean imprisonment. He was probably bleeding; he could not let them see. The drugs were making him slow, unfocused. He had stayed under the water, straining his ears, until he heard the jet fly off into the distance. He counted the seconds, then the minutes, to keep himself awake, until his breath finally gave out. Slowly, he had forced his way up out of the water with his working leg, taking in a shuddering gasp of air as he surveyed his surroundings.

He had emerged close to an abandoned riverbank, next to a dense scattering of trees. His metal arm whined when he reached out, but the wrist was able to move, and he was able to grab onto the bank and drag himself to shore. He got rid of the Widow’s Bites, tossing them back in the river, and took a moment to recalibrate the plates on the arm. They were wet and would soon rust without maintenance, but for the moment, they were functional.

He had retreated further into the trees to assess the rest of his injuries. He had wrenched the arrows out precisely so that they would leave no tracker or shrapnel behind. Blood had bubbled up sluggishly from the open wounds, struggling to clot on top of ragged tissue. The Asset had pressed his gloved metal hand against the wounds, first on his shoulder and then on his thigh, until the blood had congealed enough to form a seal. There had been a thin but deep cut along his throat where the wire had grazed him; it had already begun to stitch itself together. The rest of his body had been unharmed.

He still sits in the trees, now, as he waits for his flesh to patch itself. He is watching the sunset across the river. It is... _beautiful_ , he thinks hazily. The word is unfamiliar, and so is the excited fluttering in his chest. The city is steeped in orange and yellow light as if it is on fire. There are echoes in his head, now, explosions, shouting, muddy trenches and heavy helmets. Perhaps remnants of an old mission.

 _Mission._ His mind is as sluggish as the blood flowing through his body. _Mission failure._ He should: _return to base. Debrief. Confess. Undergo maintenance. Accept punishment. The chair, the clamps, the cold. It will make him forget. It will return him to being the perfect soldier._

But he cannot make his body follow the protocol. There is something in him that resists, something old and long-buried. He thinks that perhaps he should wait for his wounds to heal more, because when the body requires extra maintenance then the Asset receives more punishment, more pain. So he stays at the riverbank until it is dark, staring out at the sunset and the wreckage of the skyscraper, the smoke curling upward to the brilliant sky. He holds still as helicopters pass above him, sweeping the area for - for what? For him, probably.

He is a ghost. He should not be found. He must not be found.

 _Not even by the handlers_ , whispers a voice in his head. He does not know where this voice comes from. It confuses him. But it is almost a comfort, too.

When night falls, he creeps into the city and takes shelter behind a dumpster at the end of an alley. There are few windows in the alley; few opportunities for surveillance and snipers. The dumpster stinks of wet garbage. Laughter rings loudly in the distance, and suddenly, there is the slam of a door and the smell of burning meat. He flinches, drawing a knife. He wonders if it is his flesh, but when he looks down he sees no fire. And the smell, the smell would be different. This smell reminds him of something good— _a fire, men in army uniforms shoving at each other’s shoulders, laughing, exchanging cigarettes—_

His stomach growls loudly. He presses a hand against it to silence it, but it will not obey. His metal arm whirrs, clicking ominously, as footsteps approach. The smell of burning meat gets stronger. He holds himself very still.

The footsteps stop. “Hello?”

A deep voice, a man’s voice. But the footsteps are light. A small man, perhaps. He does not know. Spies can modulate their voices and appearances and gaits easily. This one could be sent by the Avengers, or by his handlers. He does not want to face either possibility.

“Well, um, if you’re a person, you’re welcome to this food. We had an accident in the kitchen and it’s too burnt for us to serve. It’s beef. Ribs. We serve barbeque. Um. I added some pickles too, so you can have some veggies. And a dinner roll. We were going to throw it away, and I thought I’d check to see if someone was...was out here and would like it.” There’s a pause. “I guess if you’re a cat or a dog you’ll eat what you want.”

He is not a cat. Or a dog. Sometimes the handlers would call him a dog, though. It made him feel—feel—

_Ashamed._

The Asset does not feel.

There’s a soft rustle as someone kneels gingerly and sets something down at the other side of the dumpster.

The footsteps fade, and a door in the distance closes with a screech.

The soldier does not move. It is a trap. It must be a trap. Sometimes the handlers will do this: lure him with the promise of a reward and take it away at the last moment. Food. Water. A blanket. Clothing. 

Those punishments hurt more than the chair.

Saliva is pooling in his mouth, and he swallows it forcefully. There is a dull ache building in his head. There is an itch growing under his tac vest and at the sites of the puncture wounds. Sweat is gathering underneath his hair, dripping down his back. He lifts his right hand to wipe it off in irritation, hissing as his shoulder protests.

He waits, crouched, until he hears locks turning, doors being shut, voices calling out “Good night.” Then, when it has been silent for exactly ten minutes, he emerges from behind the dumpster. Something shiny winks at him from the other side, and he freezes, retreating. He crouches down to examine it after visually sweeping the alley for any hostiles.

In the dark, he can make out that it is a soggy paper plate and what looks like a soft, wrinkled metal. _Aluminum_ , his mind supplies. _Aluminum foil. Ma only ever bought it once—_

He lets out a breath and cautiously pokes at the foil with a knife, unearthing a stack of charred ribs, a handful of pickles, and a piece of greasy bread. He rummages through the food with his flesh hand, searching for trackers. Grease covers his fingers, and he resists the urge to lick it off. He is not an animal, no matter what his handlers say. He will not degrade himself.

His stomach growls again, insistent. His head feels light. He grabs the plate and retreats behind the dumpster. He places his left on the ground, unwilling to risk getting grease into the divots. He wants to avoid extra maintenance, he reminds himself, because extra maintenance means punishment, always. Besides, his handlers must not find out that he took this food, because they would punish him for that, too.

With the right hand, he raises the bread to his mouth. Butter drips down his tongue. It is pleasurable, almost overwhelmingly so. He forces himself to eat slowly, not wanting to make himself retch. There is an echo of a memory there: humiliation, misery, gagging. Someone snickering through the bars. He shakes his head, staring down at the food uneasily, then takes stock of his surroundings again.

No noises. No hostiles, to his eye. He is far enough away from the windows that it would be hard to hit him.

He works through the ribs slowly, gathering all of the bones in a neat stack. The sauce is a mix between vinegar and syrup. The pickles are sour on his tongue, and he finds he enjoys the way they make his mouth pucker. There is a memory there, too, from the taste, but it skitters away before he can grasp it.

The plate is empty before he realizes. His stomach feels full and warm. He gathers the bones, the foil, and the plate and rises, lifting the lid of the dumpster quietly and dumping his garbage into it. _Ma raised me better’n to leave my pickings lying around_ , says the voice in his head. Just as he sets the lid of the dumpster down, raised, angry voices approach, and he swiftly draws his knife and crouches, waiting to assess the situation.

There are two men: one with black hair, muscular, scarred, and another, thin and weak and short, with blonde hair that glints in the dim streetlight. The taller one is backing the blonde one into the alley. Both have their fists raised.

“Y’think y’can cockblock me, you little faggot?” the taller one growls. The Asset freezes. He knows that voice. That voice is...that voice is a…

 _Handler_. 

“She said no,” says the blonde man. “You oughta respect that. Women aren’t objects you’re just entitled to have sex with.” His voice is deep and oddly familiar. It is the same voice that offered the food. 

“She’s a hooker, you fucking faggot, she’s for me to fuck whenever I want,” says the handler, and he swings a punch at the blonde man.

The blonde man dodges; he’s quick, but not quick enough, and the blow grazes his cheek. He lands on the ground with a wince. Then he raises himself up, wobbling against the wall and snarling, “She’s off the clock. She said no. That means you should’ve left her alone.”

The handler responds by punching the blonde man in the face. The other cheekbone, this time.

The blonde man cradles his face and garbles, from the ground, “People aren’t objects you can just use at will. They’re _people_. Means you should respect their choices.”

The handler is angry. He kicks the blonde man in the ribs, and the blonde man curls up and wheezes. Then the handler draws a gun. “Fuckin’ faggot,” says the handler. “I should just shoot you to shut you up. It wouldn’t take much to make you disappear.” He laughs darkly. “Don’t need a fuckin' Asset to take you out.”

The Asset has seen enough. He steps out from behind the dumpster, knife in his flesh hand. The handler looks up, relief on his face. “There you fuckin’ are, you goddamn half-brained cyborg,” he mutters. “Come on. I’ve been looking all over the city for you.” He jerks his head toward the entrance of the alleyway.

The Asset does not move. He stares at the handler, his greasy fingers curling around his knife. The blonde man lies on the ground between them, cradling his ribs and wheezing.

“Come _on_ ,” says the handler with a groan. “God. Fucking hell. Fuckin’ cyborg. Let’s _go_. Return to base, Asset, for debriefing. Come on, chop chop, ain’t got time to waste here. Time to be a good soldier.” He tries to say something in Russian, but it is unintelligible.

The Asset does not move.

Then the blonde man says, in a gasping breath, “I don’t think he wants to go with you. Stop treating him like a...a pet.”

No. He is not a pet. He is not an animal. Or a cat. Or a dog. He has manners, he does not lick his fingers, he can keep his food down, he throws away his garbage in the dumpster, he watches the sunset at the river.

Returning to base would mean debriefing would mean confessing mission failure would mean _pain_ and _beatings_ and _electricity_ and _cold_ and the memories of the sunset and river being wiped away.

“You’re getting on my last nerve here, you little faggot,” the handler snarls. “Get out of the way.”

The blonde man stands, coughing and sputtering, and raises shaky fists. “He doesn’t want to go with you. So for the second time tonight, _fuck off_. I can do this all day.”

The handler growls and cocks his gun. The blonde man’s eyes widen.

The Asset moves.

He sweeps past the blonde man and wrenches the gun out of the handler’s hands, punching him in the nose before unloading the gun. Bullets scatter onto the ground. Then he pushes the handler up against the wall, metal arm around his throat. The handler wheezes, fingers scrabbling at the arm. The Asset squeezes more tightly. Just a little more and then there would be no more breath left in the handler’s body. No more orders. No more pain. From this one, at least.

“Stop! Stop! Don’t kill him. Come on. He’s not worth it.” The blonde man is next to the Asset, tugging on the metal arm. The Asset startles. He lets go of the handler, and the handler slumps to the ground, clutching at his throat and choking on blood from his nose. The Asset considers the handler, then punches him in the jaw with his flesh hand, hard enough to make him lose consciousness. The handler crumples, but he still breathes.

“Stay back. Do not move,” the Asset tells the blonde man. He keeps him in the periphery of his vision as he searches the handler’s person for devices. There may be trackers embedded beneath the skin, but the Asset does not have time to search for those. He rips out the communication device from the handler’s ear and crushes it under his boot. There is a cell phone in the handler’s pocket with location services activated. The Asset checks the messages: there are some coded messages about the Asset and the mission from before the helicarrier, but afterward contains a lot of cursing and misspelled text. One message catches his eye: _“I’ll bring the dog back and sicc it on the bitch f irst. Let it o ut of it’s cage inTO there fucken tower and watch it rip them a part. The rooshies said he used to fucK her. Id love to get my hands on that tit n as.”_  

 _We were lovers, once_. The Asset still does not remember being lovers with the Black Widow. He does not remember being lovers with anyone. But the thought of the Black Widow being torn apart by the handler makes something dark and angry curl low in his gut.

On a whim, the Asset opens the browser on the phone and searches “Avengers contact.” The website of Stark Industries is the first result. The Asset opens the Stark Industries page and finds a general information email address to send Iron Man’s staff inquiries for press engagements. The Asset types in the handler’s coordinates with the subject line “Rumlow” and sends the email. Then the Asset throws the phone onto the ground and crushes it into dust.

He finally turns his attention to the blonde man, who is staring at him with a wild expression.  “Jesus,” the blonde man breathes, coughing. He is staring at the metal arm, now visible in the streetlight. The Asset watches him warily. “Th-thank you,” says the blonde man, through gasps of air. “Um. What’s your name?”

The question is...the question does not make sense. He is the Asset, the soldier. _Soldat_.  He is _Sasha_ according to the Black Widow. But none of those names are correct; he feels it in his gut. He shakes his head a little.

“Um. Okay.” The blonde takes a shaky breath. “My name’s Steve. Thanks for...for saving my life.” He reaches into his pocket, and the Asset tenses, raising his knife. Steve’s eyes widen. “I—I’m just getting my inhaler! Look.” He raises both hands in the air. There is some kind of tube in his hand. He keeps his eyes on the Asset as he places to his nose and mouth. He breathes in deeply, three times. Then he drops his hands to the side. “I’ve got asthma. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 _Asthma_. The Asset thinks he knows what that is. A breathing problem. Constriction of the lungs. The tube must help with air flow.

The Asset feels...strange. _Embarrassed._ He sheathes his knife.

“Okay.” Steve eyes the empty gun on the ground, then jerks his head toward the handler. “Is he—is he dead?”

“No. He will wake up in six hours with bruising on his jaw and a sore head and blood in his sinuses and likely a concussion. He will not die.” 

Steve stares at him. “Okay. Is this some sort of gang thing? Or—or the mob? Actually, just—don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.” He runs his hands through his hair, his eyes wide. “Well, we can’t just leave him here. He might need medical attention. Or he might stop breathing, or he might have brain damage.”

The words _brain damage_ make the Asset shiver. He suppresses it.

“I’m going to check his vitals. Then, I think we should call the police with an anonymous tip so that they’ll find him in case he needs more serious attention.”

“No police.” The words come out of the Asset’s mouth before he can stop them. “There is no need to go near him. He is breathing. His pulse is steady. He will live.” Steve should not go near the handler. Steve does not deserve punishment or pain or the Chair.

Steve jumps a little. “All right,” Steve says with a frown. “But you’re not going to kill him, right?”

The Asset considers this. Killing the handler would mean one less person tracking him. One less person trying to bring him back to base. One less person giving him orders and pain.

_One more body on his conscience._

_Another 1.5 gallons of blood on his hands._

_Blood and guts and brain tissue spilling out as he completes his missions. Eliminate, eliminate. Make it hurt, make them remember. Send a message._

He is shaking.

“Hey. Hey, it’s all right.”

There is someone to his right.

The Asset whirls, raising his knife. His arm whirs. The thin blonde man— _Steve—_ is approaching him with slow, careful footsteps, his hands raised in the air. Steve freezes.

“Hey, whoa. You’re safe. You’re...you’re in Washington DC. It’s 2014.  My name is Steve. You—you saved me from that guy. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

The Asset breathes in.

“Okay. Good. Now, follow my count as you breathe out. Five seconds. One...two…three...four...five…”

The Asset obeys, listening to the residual wheeze in Steve’s breath. They repeat the procedure five times. The Asset’s heartbeat slows to an acceptable rate. The world comes alive around him. The handler— _Rumlow_ , he identifies—is still collapsed on the ground, but breathing. The small blonde man— _Steve—_ is standing two meters away from him, body language open and relaxed.

“Are you back with me?” Steve asked, his brow furrowed.

The Asset nods.

“Okay. Can I come toward you?”

The Asset hesitates, then nods.

“Okay.” Steve takes a small step forward, telegraphing his movements as he gets closer and closer. “It looks like you’re injured. It would probably be good to get somewhere clean and safe so we can look at your injuries, and mine too.” He takes a small breath, looking nervous. “It’s late at night, so nothing’s really open, but I live pretty close to here. I’ve got a pretty extensive medical kit since my mom was a nurse.”

The Asset considers this. Clean and safe. Medical kit. Maintenance. Maintenance without returning to base. Steve was not mentioned in any intelligence on the Avengers. If he is a spy—from HYDRA or the Avengers—he can be taken out easily. It is clear that he has no self-preservation instincts; he got between the Asset and the handler.

The Asset feels a little flare of warmth in his chest.

“What do you think?” asks Steve.

The Asset nods. “This is acceptable.” His voice is hoarse and ugly. He thinks that he had a different one, once, a regional lilt that was attractive, but it was ruined by the Chair. 

“Okay. And what about him? I—he could die.”

The handler. Rumlow. The Asset does not care if he dies, but Steve does. “Leave him. He will be found. I have sent a message." The Avengers are smart; they will receive the Asset’s message and apprehend Rumlow. 

“Okay.”  Steve takes another step forward. “Let’s get out of here.”  He holds eye contact with the Asset. “I’ve just got one favor to ask. Can you walk beside me when we’re going to my apartment? I—It’s easier than having you at my back.”

Steve is smarter than he looks. Exposing one’s back is an easy way to get killed. The side—the side is not much better; one could easily get stabbed in the gut. But at least there would be visual warning. And the only other option would be having the Asset walk in front of Steve, which the Asset will not do.

The Asset makes sure that Rumlow is well and truly unconscious before they leave the alleyway. Then, the Asset walks on Steve’s left, closer to the road with his metal arm facing the road, trying to slow his pace to match the other man’s. The silence is thick and uncomfortable between them. He ignores Steve’s nervous glances as they wend their way south two blocks, then turn west onto a little street which holds a shabby, nondescript apartment building with a glass door with thick iron bars on its outside.

Steve reaches deep into his pocket for a keyring. The gate swings outward with a loud creak. Steve curses under his breath and fumbles with the lock on the glass door, which is set higher than his head and placed so that it can be concealed behind one of the iron bars on the gate. There is a hollow sound as the lock finally opens. Steve gestures for the Asset to step in.

“Gotta lock back up,” he explains, his voice low.

The Asset steps inside a dark, narrow hallway, eyes assessing as Steve locks the gate and then the door. There is a staircase ten feet behind them, which seems to lead up to a landing with four doors. Steve fumbles in his back pocket for a moment—the Asset watches— and then he pulls out a phone, turning on the flashlight. The light is bright and cold, and it hurts the Asset’s eyes and head if he looks at it directly. It illuminates a narrow staircase in stark relief.

“I’m at the very left after you go up the stairs,” Steve says, his voice still low. “I think both of us can fit on the staircase.” He grimaces. “It’ll be a tight fit. Sorry. But—I don’t really feel comfortable turning my back to you, and I...I don’t think you want to turn your back to me, either. So. Um.” Steve takes in a shaky breath. “Ready?”

“Affirmative,” the Asset responds. He positions himself on Steve’s left again. His footfalls are heavy in the stillness of the night. Steve’s are a light layer of sound above his.

They make it to a scratched wooden door that says “4F” with two locks. Steve slips the keys into them, glancing warily at the Asset from underneath his eyelashes. He takes a step forward and flicks the light switch, then pulls open the door. He waits until the Asset has gotten inside before quickly shutting and locking the door.

The apartment is largely unfurnished. It is lit by a few dull incandescent bulbs whose light diffuses through a glass plate attached to the ceiling. There is a narrow hallway with a shoe rack, with a bathroom immediately past it to the left. Farther into the apartment, next to the bathroom, is a bedroom. The sheets on the bed are dark blue and grey. To the Asset’s right, closer to the front door, a small kitchenette with a full size refrigerator, two stovetops, a microwave, an old oven, and a few cabinets opens up into a carpeted square space with a large window connected to a fire escape. A large wooden table and a tall, straight-backed wooden chair sits in front of the window, littered with sheets of thick paper and a scattered collection of pencils. There is a tall black lamp with flexible joints next to it. On the other side of the square space, in the corner closest to the bedroom, stands an odd lamp that looks like it is made of paper. It is set next to a very worn, velvet armchair with stuffing edging out at its seams.

“Home sweet home,” says Steve, a smile twisting his lips. In the light of the apartment, the Asset can make out the color of his clothing. “Gabe’s BBQ” is printed in white on the front of the red t-shirt he is wearing. Steve is wearing dark jeans which hang loose on his thin legs. He glances at Bucky, frowning. “All right. Let’s check on our injuries first, and then we should each have a wash. Maybe we should both eat something, too. And then sleep...You can stay here, if you want. I don’t mind taking the floor in the living room if you want the bed.”

The Asset processes this series of orders. He cannot comprehend the last one. The Asset does not sleep, generally, unless he is in the tube. On rare long-term missions he sleeps outside or on the floor (usually cement, never carpeted).

“I will sleep on the floor,” he ventures. He rarely is allowed to speak out of turn without punishment, but this is the second time tonight he has done so with Steve, and no pain has followed.

Steve takes it in stride, looking relieved and a little guilty. It is strange, and the Asset vows to remember it. “Okay. I’ve got a sleeping bag, and I’ll dig out some extra pillows and blankets.” He steps into the bathroom and opens the cabinet underneath the sink, pulling out a red medical kit and a packaged toothbrush. “Why don’t you go ahead and take a shower first? Use the soap to clean up. It should be mild enough not to cause any tissue damage. I think the shampoo should be okay, too, just don’t get it into any open wounds.”

He takes a breath. “Bathtub’s kind of vintage. The shower head’s up top and the taps are in the middle of the wall. Hot water’s on the left, cold’s on the right. Turn the dials to the right to get the water going. You’ll want to give it about a minute for it to warm up and for the water pressure to equalize. Make sure the curtain’s closed before you turn the tap otherwise the water will get on the floor. I think that’s all there is to know. Oh, feel free to use whatever you like in the kit. And the toothpaste is behind the mirror. Just um—yell if you need anything. Or if you need help treating your wounds.”

The Asset watches Steve retreat to the bedroom before he steps into the bathroom. He quickly opens the mirror cabinet and the cabinet beneath the sink, checking for trackers in the room. There are none. A little spark of interest flares in his chest as he notices the deep clawfoot bathtub. _One of them fancy ones that says you’re from money_ , says the voice in his head. At the end of the bathtub there is a small window with a screen and glass with a frosted pattern meant to blur identities. It is closed.

The room swims for a moment in front of his eyes. He braces against the wall as he undoes the boots and pulls off the gritty socks he was given for the mission. He strips off his sticky tac vest and places it on the floor, folding it so that the weapons will be protected. gritting his teeth at the hot throb of pain in his shoulder. Then he carefully peels his pants off of his legs, flinching a little as the threads brush over the hole on his thigh. Fortunately, no thread from the pants has integrated into his skin. He steps out of them and again folds the pants so that the weapons are safely enclosed. He carefully slides down the briefs he was given for the mission as well. Then, he angles his body into the light, bending down to inspect the thigh wound.

“Oh.”

The Asset whips around. Steve is frozen near the door, his face flushed and his eyes averted. A pile of towels and clothing sits in his arms.

“Um, I - I brought you some towels. And clothes. Sorry. I thought the door was closed. I’ll just—um. Here.” He shuffles a couple of steps forward, still averting his eyes, and holds out the bundle to the Asset. The Asset takes it, blinking as Steve hastily retreats, calling, “I’ll uh—I’ll be in the bedroom. Um. Just—let me know when you’re done.”

The Asset sets the pile neatly down onto the closed lid of the toilet. There are two dark blue towels and a pair of boxers, loose sweatpants, and a long sleeve t-shirt.

He eyes the door with a small grimace. The bathroom is small enough with the door open, but Steve obviously expects him to close the door, or he would not have been so surprised by the Asset’s nudity.  The Asset compromises and leaves the door ajar, reasoning that this will allow the steam from the hot water to ventilate.

He pulls the curtain shut and turns both taps all the way to the right and counts in his head for exactly 60 seconds as Steve instructed. The water is warm, edging just a little toward hot, and the pressure is rather soothing. It is vastly different from the cold blast of the hose that he normally receives after a mission. On a small shelf on the interior wall of the shower, the Asset finds a plastic container of nondescript clear soap that claims to be “for sensitive skin.” There is also a bright green container labeled “2-in-1 Shampoo and Conditioner.” The Asset reaches for the soap with his metal arm and rubs it around the wounds first, carefully cleaning the edges. After the dried blood has washed away, the Asset can see pale pink tissue, wrinkled and swollen, where the puncture holes once were. The area around the wounds looks bruised, and he wonders if he has internal bleeding. There is nothing to be done now. The body will heal.

The Asset cleans his face with the soap and then pours some bright green shampoo into his palm, rubbing it through his hair removing the scum of the river water and grease from the meal Steve provided. The stubble on his face feels rough. The motion on his chin feels familiar.  He thinks that there was a time when he cared deeply about how much stubble he had on his face, but he cannot remember. He rubs soap over the rest of his body clinically, and then he closes his eyes and lets the water rinse it all off. It takes him a moment to identify the pleasure that runs through him, and then he realizes: his body is relaxing under the warm water. His mind, for a moment, is at peace.

It feels like the river.

The Asset wants to stay in the shower longer.

The Asset wants.

The Asset cannot want.

The Asset is not supposed to want. But he _can_ want.

It is a revelation.

The Asset abruptly shuts off the taps. He pulls the curtain back and, from the bathtub, reaches out his metal arm to grab one of the towels. He dries his body first, shivering a little at the softness of the towel, and then he rubs the towel on his head to capture some of the water in his hair. He then takes the other towel and carefully cleans the exterior of the metal arm, then flexes the arm so that the inner plates stand up. He peers at each plate as he dries it off, noting that there are no signs of rust yet. There is something like relief at the thought.

He slides on the clothing, which feels soft and pleasant against his skin. He takes a moment to scrub the boots free of dust and dirt, something twinging in his heart when he notices the towels getting colored with blood. He decides to let the boots air out overnight. Then he folds the towels and lays them on the ground. He ignores the red medical kit at the sink and is about to gather his gear from the floor, but then he spots the toothbrush.

He cannot remember the last time he brushed his teeth, but muscle memory leads him to pull out the toothpaste, place an exact pea-sized amount on the toothbrush, and brush across each quadrant of his mouth. He spits in the sink and rinses his mouth out with blessedly cool water. He takes the opportunity to drink more of the water to make up for any blood loss. Then, he bundles up his dirty gear and his weapons, places the toothbrush on top, and pushes the door open.

The cold air that hits him takes him back to the tube, momentarily, and he stands frozen in the doorway of the bathroom, shaking. Then he shakes his head and assesses his surroundings. Steve, from the alleyway. Apartment: kitchenette at the door, bedroom a few steps toward the corner, open space with an armchair, a window, a desk. A bedroll, blanket, and pillow have appeared on the floor next to the armchair, along with a plastic bottle of water and wrapped energy bars.

The bedroom door is closed. The Asset stands in front of it for a moment, considering. He recalls his handlers knocking on office doors, sometimes.

He knocks with his flesh hand, ignoring the throb in his shoulder.

“Um,” says Steve from inside. “Are you finished?”

“Affirmative.”

“Are you wearing clothing?”

The Asset's lips curve upward and he identifies: _amusement_. “Affirmative.”

Steve opens the door. He is holding an icepack to each of his bruised cheeks. He looks a little bit like a chipmunk. The Asset identifies, once again: _amusement_.  “Ah. Hey.” Steve clears his throat. ”How are your injuries?" 

“They are healing.” At Steve’s frown, he adds, “They do not need treatment.” There is pain in the shoulder and the thigh, but they will not impede the Asset’s functioning. And he does not get to ask for reprieves from pain; the handlers made sure of that.

“Really?” Steve looks doubtful. “They looked pretty bad to me. Were they old?”

“I received them this afternoon at approximately 1500.”

Steve blinks. “Okay. Why don’t you set your stuff down near the sleeping bag? If you don’t mind, I’d like to double check the injuries. Just for - for my own peace of mind.”

The Asset recognizes, then, that Steve does not know about the Asset’s enhanced healing. That is—strange. The handlers always knew.

“You don’t have to,” says Steve, his cheeks reddening. “I mean. It’s your body. You know best. But—if you do need treatment, I can help.”

Steve’s words are confusing. “They do not need treatment,” the Asset repeats. No extra maintenance. Not for the arm or for the body.

“Okay.” Steve heaves a breath, transferring the ice packs with one hand while rubbing at his eyes with the other. He lifts his chin. “It’s been a long night. I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. You’re welcome to stay here. But if you want to leave too, I’d understand. I, um—I need to know so I can make sure the locks downstairs are set.”

The Asset pauses, considering. The apartment is not very secure, but it is better than the street. If he tries to go back to the base now, they will surely give him extra punishment for hurting Rumlow. And besides, Rumlow’s text messages had indicated that the base was destroyed. S.H.I.E.L.D. and consequently Hydra are in tatters; the Avengers are all alive and safe in their Manhattan tower. The Asset does not have a base to return to, anymore. The Asset is fr - the Asset must make his own missions, now.

The mission is: replenish strength. Steve is not a handler, and he does not seem to be a spy. To the Asset’s knowledge, no one has followed the Asset to Steve’s apartment. Steve has a medical kit and a shelter with four (somewhat secure) locks and food and water.

“I will stay here,” he tells Steve.

“Okay. That’s—that’s fine with me. Let me just grab my clothes for the shower, then I’ll be out of your way. Can you put these in the freezer?” Steve hands the Asset the ice packs, which are startlingly cold against his flesh hand, and then he darts into the bedroom, and then he rushes past the Asset to the bathroom, clicking the door closed. He smells faintly of grease.

The Asset shoves the packs into the freezers as quickly as he can, unwilling to be reminded of the tube yet again. Then he enters Steve’s bedroom and quickly sweeps it for trackers. The bedroom is small. It has a window on the west wall, a wooden nightstand with a framed, faded photograph of a smiling blonde woman who looks like Steve, and a bed with navy blue and silver striped sheets.

Steve’s cell phone is on top of the bedspread. It is black and has a cracked screen and a chipped corner. He makes sure the GPS and camera are off. The Asset looks under the bed, spots a rolled up mat. He quickly shakes it out, blinking at the neon pink color, and then rolls it back under, satisfied that there are no trackers. He opens the night stand drawers, notes unopened condoms, a bottle of lubricant, a cell phone charger, a tattered Bible. No trackers.

There is a small bookshelf with a box containing a Wacom tablet, a battered laptop and power cord, some tattered sketchbooks and textbooks on art. The Asset leafs through them and finds nothing but various diagrams of scenery and the human body. He checks to make sure that the laptop is not on; it is an old enough model not to have a built in camera. The tablet opens easily at his touch: it quickly becomes apparent that it is only used to make graphics and has no other features. Perhaps Steve is an artist of some sort. The Asset thinks he knows about art, in some abstract way, but he cannot quite comprehend exactly what it means to be an artist.

There is a bulletin board mounted on the wall, near the bed. Pinned on it with plastic thumb tacks are photographs depicting Steve in various outfits with various people: Steve grinning in running gear, firm calves and short shorts, next to a black man with a bright eyes and wide smile, a younger Steve shyly smiling and standing next to the woman on the nightstand (possibly his mother), Steve in university graduation regalia, one arm around a girl with pale skin, dark hair and eyes, and a sardonic smirk and his other around a girl with blonde wavy hair, blue eyes, and a pageant-like smile; Steve at the bedside of a woman with gray curls and sharp eyes that the Asset lingers on for a moment; a few others. The Asset does not recognize any association with S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, or the Avengers.

Around the bulletin board, Steve has also pinned drawings: there is a detailed sketch of the reflecting pool at the National Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson Memorial, the Capitol Building, some kind of large historic hotel, what looks like a museum, and a sketch of Arlington National Cemetery composed almost entirely of black and white. The last one sends a jolt through the Asset, but he does not know why.

Satisfied that the room is empty of trackers, the Asset moves on to the kitchen. He thinks that the refrigerator looks wrong, somehow; it should be smaller, with wooden doors instead of steel. The cabinets and drawers contain chipped dishes, a purple mug that says NYU, a mug that says “Trish Talk”, silverware, kitchen knives (nothing to cause harm unless at close range). He quickly sweeps the rest of the living room, which is bare. Then he moves towards the bedroll near the armchair and sits down on the floor, picking up the bottle of water. He mechanically eats the energy bar to increase his caloric intake, sipping water as he assesses the room. The space is far too open: anyone looking through the window or on the fire escape would be able to spot him sleeping there. A sniper across the street could easily make the mark without notice.

He drags the bedroll under the desk, the only form of cover in the room besides the kitchen counter, and then he moves the chair so that it is against the wall. He lays out the roll lengthwise so that if he curls up his body, his head will be at one end of the space underneath and his feet at the other. The cramped space reminds him a little of the tube, but unlike the tube, it is warm and soft and he can get out whenever he wants. The Asset puts the energy bar wrapper and empty water bottle in the garbage can in the kitchenette, then he grabs his gear from the bathroom door and places it under the desk next to the bedroll.

He sits underneath the desk in the dark, his eyes on the bathroom door as he waits for Steve to finish his shower. The sound of running water brings an echo to his head: sludge, and rain, and the faint smell of smoke. Wooden boxes slipping out of his fingers; curses and shouts and laughter on a dock. A little girl with bright brown eyes and ribbons in her curls, batting at his soggy jacket.

The bathroom door opens; the Asset startles out of the memory. Steve is dressed in flannel pajamas, loose around his wiry body.  Steve halts and looks around for a moment, bewildered, and then frowns a little as he spots the Asset under the desk.

“Oh. Are you planning to sleep under the desk?”

The Asset answers, “This is the only place in the room with shelter.”

“Oh. All right.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the bed?”

“No. This is adequate.” The Asset does not ever remember sleeping on a bed, and he does not want to take the risk of an unfamiliar sensation. He thinks that sleeping on something too soft might feel like suffocation. Here, he has a good view of the whole apartment and a firm surface at his back.

“Okay,” says Steve, his brow furrowed “Um. Would you like anything else? Another bottle of water, or an energy bar? Or another blanket?”

Steve has so many questions. The Asset shakes his head. “No. This is—adequate.”

“Okay,” Steve repeats, looking around the room as he walks toward his bedroom. “Um. Well. Good night. If you need to leave in the morning, please knock on the bedroom door so I can make sure the locks are all in place.”

“Affirmative,” says the Asset.

“Yeah. Good night.”

The bedroom door clicks shut. The Asset listens to the rustle of sheets, Steve’s deep sigh as he settles into the bed. Then, the Asset arranges his body underneath the desk, lying on his back with his knees bent. He stares up at the scratched underside of the desk, using his enhanced vision to make out patterns in the wood, until his eyes close.

* * *

The Asset startles awake when a bird twitters in the distance.

He is still under the desk in the same position: flat on his back, feet flat on the floor with his knees bent upward, held closely together. The position reminds him of something that makes him freeze, momentarily, in fear. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets it wash over him, and then shakes his head angrily. The wood of the desk is firm against his toes, not cold metal like the tube. He rolls himself out under the desk, leaning on his metal arm. Sunlight is seeping into the little square space—a _parlor_ , or a _living room_ , he identifies now. He crouches down next to the desk and peers through the fire escape. He judges it has been about 4 hours. The horizon is a pale gold, rising into a orange and pink before being swallowed up by a rich blue and violet. It is _beautiful_ , he thinks again, the word becoming more familiar. He mouths it, tries it out on his tongue. _Beautiful._

The Asset becomes aware of an urgent press on his bladder. He retrieves his tac gear from underneath the desk, pleased to note that it left no stains on the carpet. It would be—incorrect—rude—a failure—to leave blood on the carpet. He steps into the small bathroom, leaving the door ajar, and takes a piss in the toilet. The flush is loud, and his eyes dart to the door of Steve’s bedroom. He holds his breath, listening for any sounds of movement, but all he hears through the wall is a faint, distant wheeze. Steve’s breath. _Asthma_.

The Asset releases a breath and quietly turns on the sink, washing his hands, and then brushes his teeth and splashes water onto his face almost silently. He looks at the dirty tac gear and boots next to him on the floor. Dirty will not do; he cares little for the clothing, ripped and stained now, even the tac vest, but the weapons must be preserved. He frowns, assessing, then silently hunts in the kitchen for a relatively clean rag, cleaning alcohol, and oil. He finds the first two, but not the third. With a little flicker of annoyance, he retrieves his knives from his pants and spreads them out on the floor, and he begins to wipe the knives clean. The action is familiar and calming.

He reminds himself of his mission from last night: replenish strength. That has been accomplished, he thinks: some food, some sleep, a shower; these have left his body feeling rested, content. His mind, however, is a different story. Echoes claw at the edges of his consciousness: voices (screams), smells (metal and smoke and oil), words in hundred of different languages ( _stop, please, mercy, don’t_ ), and through it all: the bright red gush of blood. He flinches against the onslaught, dropping the knife to the floor with a clatter as he begins to scrub at his metal hand. A hand covered with brain tissue and guts and blood blood blood, off, off, he wants it _off_ -

“Whoa! H-hey. Are you all right?” Softer now: “Can you hear me?”

The Asset blinks through blurry eyes and identifies: hot pink. Steve is holding the strange rolled up mat from under his bed. He is holding it out in front of his body, defensively. Perhaps he means to hit the Asset. The Asset reaches for one of the knives, and Steve jumps back a bit.

“Okay. Okay!” Steve’s breath comes in a little short. “Hey. Can you put the knife down. Please? You’re safe. You’re in Baltimore, with me. Steve. You’re in my apartment. You came here last night. Remember? Can you breathe with me?”

The Asset stares at the hot pink mat, following Steve’s instructions to take a breath, in and out. Steve did this last night, he remembers, in the alley. Slowly, the echoes in his mind fade until all he hears is the wheeze of Steve’s lungs, the birds that woke him, and the hum of distant traffic.

“Hey,” says Steve gently. He lays the mat against the wall and crouches down, looking into the Asset’s eyes. There are bruises on his face. “Are you back with me now?”

The Asset nods. “Affirmative.” His voice is rough again. His mouth is dry.

“All right.” Steve lets out a long breath, puts a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Panic attack, huh? I get them myself sometimes.”

The Asset’s face is warm. He identifies: _Guilt_. _Fear_. _Shame._ He ducks his head, awaiting something. A blow, perhaps. Punishment. He flinches.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” Steve’s voice is soft and gentle.

The Asset wants to sink into it, warm and relaxed, but he thinks it’s probably a trick. Instead he shifts and gathers his knives efficiently, sheathing them and wrapping them in the dirty tac gear till they are secure and concealed. He rises fluidly from the bathroom floor despite the ache in his thigh. Steve rises with him, gaze wary, body held open.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Steve asks. “Coffee?”

The Asset reminds himself of the mission, and he nods slowly.

“Okay.” Steve takes a deep breath. “I’ve—I’ve got to use the bathroom for a little bit, then I’ll come out and make us some food. Is that all right?”

The Asset nods.

Steve takes another deep breath. “Okay. Great. I’ll just be a little bit. Make yourself comfortable.”

The Asset sets his weapons down under the desk. He rolls up the loose pants and straps a knife onto each leg and slips two smaller ones into the holsters of his boots. He bundles up the rest, checks the safety on the two small guns, and leaves them in the corner under the desk. He returns the tall wooden desk chair to its spot. Then he returns to the spot next to the desk, crouching down so that his body will be covered by the fire escape, and he watches the sky turn a bright blue, illuminating the brick buildings and steel storefronts of the city. The sunlight hurts his eyes, and he blinks rapidly against his blurring vision. He feels, for a moment, short of breath, and he forces himself to swallow air. His face is wet; there are tears on his face. He uses his shirtsleeve to dry them quickly. He must not incur any punishment, now or in the future.

The door clicks as Steve steps out of the bathroom, finished with his ministrations. He wears a thin t-shirt and the same striped pants from last night. He looks thin, weak, defenseless. The Asset rises quickly, taking up a position near the wall away from the windows. He watches Steve rub his eyes and wince at his swollen cheeks.

Steve takes some coffee grounds from the cabinet and dumps them into a machine which whirs with the sound of boiling water. Then he reaches into his freezer and pulls out a bright yellow box that says “Eggo”, setting it down on the counter before  pulling out a carton of eggs and a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. The latter makes a shiver go through the Asset, though he does not know why.

“I just have frozen waffles and some eggs,” Steve says, glancing back at the Asset. “I hope that’s okay. I was planning to do some grocery shopping today.”

The Asset files this information away. He does not know if it warrants a response, so he says nothing.

“Are you allergic to anything?” asks Steve, setting two mugs on the counter with a clink. The coffee maker has stopped burbling. Steve pours the dark brown liquid into two cups. “Oh. Do you want sugar or milk? I don’t have cream right now…”

The first is a simple question.  “I do not get allergic reactions.” The second—Asset pauses, considering. The coffee smells good. He thinks that he probably drank it, once: an image flashes through his head of damp dirt, cigarettes, crushed coffee grounds. Sugar will be good for the body; he knows the scientists put it in the intravenous solution they give him after missions. Milk...he does not want milk. There is an image of another kitchen counter, a dark house. A gunshot, two; blood, a scream, a body. His metal hand clenches into a fist.

“Hey,” says Steve.

The Asset blinks.

Steve is holding out a cup of coffee, watching the asset warily. “So...no sugar or milk, then?”

“Sugar,” the Asset answers. His voice is still rough. “No milk.” He thinks he is supposed to say something else. Something polite. Something like begging. “P...please.” He wants to cringe at the word, but he controls his face.

“Okay,” says Steve. He sets a little metal container with a spoon next to the second cup. “Here you are. I’m going to put the waffles in the toaster and get started on the eggs. It might be a little noisy. Are scrambled eggs okay?”

Eggs mean protein. Scrambled means... _Fuckin’ brains are scrambled worse’n my damn eggs this morning_. Rumlow the handler’s voice. The Asset hates that voice. That voice means pain. And not just the usual amount, either, from the tube and the chair. Pain for the sake of...a show. Laughter. Gentle lies and manipulations and traps.

“Are you still with me?”

The Asset shakes himself. Steve. He is in Steve’s apartment. His eyes dart around, and he remembers his surroundings. He looks at Steve and feels: _embarrassment_. “I am...fine.” 

Steve’s eyebrows rise. He leans against the fridge and takes another sip of his coffee. The Asset thinks that Steve is judging him, and he frowns. Steve’s lips twitch upward. “Your coffee is going to get cold,” he points out.

The Asset moves forward to the counter. He grasps the coffee mug with his flesh hand, unwilling to risk breaking a cup with the metal one, and opens the metal container of sugar with the other. He is unsure of how much to put in - too much will cause an insulin spike and a subsequent energy crash - so he settles for two dips of the tiny spoon. Then he retreats back to his position at the wall, keeping his eyes on Steve.

Steve sighs. He sets his mug in the sink, and then he turns around and begins cracking the eggs. The noises make the Asset twitch.

The Asset samples the coffee. Warm, mostly bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. He identifies: _pleasure_.

Steve hums under his breath as he stirs the eggs in the pan. The Asset jumps slightly when the toaster springs up with a creak. Steve grins and puts two small waffles on a plate along with half of the eggs. “Here,” he says. “Guests first.” He places the plate on the counter. Then he turns back to the stove, holding the spatula with one hand while he shoves two waffles into the toaster in another.

The Asset waits until Steve has made his own plate and set it on the counter. “Oh,” says Steve, his face filling with a flush. He pulls out a plastic bottle of syrup and two forks and two knives. “Sorry, I forgot about the silverware. I guess the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking around the room. “I don’t really have chairs besides the armchair and the desk chair. I’ve been scavenging for bar stools for a couple of months now, or a little table, but I’ve had no luck. I usually just eat at the counter or at the desk. So. Um. You’re welcome to take the desk, I don’t think there are any drawings on it. And I can take the counter.”

The Asset blinks, processing Steve’s rambling. Steve wants him to sit at the desk because he is a guest. _Civilized people eat at tables; dogs eat on the dirty floor._ He watches Steve pour a liberal amount of syrup onto his waffles, cut up the waffle into pieces, and take a bite with a small moan. The asset waits until Steve has also eaten the eggs, and has suffered no adverse reactions, before approaching the counter. He puts down the coffee, only half-drunk, and then takes the plate across the room. He sits down at the desk gingerly, facing the sun, and frowns at the exposure.

The syrup pours out slowly from the plastic jug, and it tastes warm and sweet on his tongue. The Asset identifies: _pleasure_. And something else. _Contentment_ , perhaps. The eggs are more flavorful than anything the Asset has tasted for a long time, save for the greasy ribs from the night before. He eats quickly, suddenly ravenous, and his plate is empty before he realizes. His stomach grumbles, wanting more, and he quickly presses a hand against his belly to stifle the sound. He cannot let anyone know; they will use his hunger to punish him.

Except, he is with Steve now, and Steve is not a handler or an agent. Or perhaps this is some long game of manipulation: make the Asset trust Steve, become vulnerable, and punish the Asset for showing weakness. Put him back in the chair and the tube and the cold. The thought makes the Asset angry, and he rises to his feet abruptly, his metal fingers curling into a fist.

Steve stills at the counter, watching him with wide eyes but making no move to defend himself. “Is everything okay?”

The Asset does not know how to answer this question. He does not know what “okay” means. He does not know what Steve wants from him. He does not know if Steve will try to punish him or send him back to the chair—but HYDRA is—HYDRA is—Rumlow the handler’s texts indicated that HYDRA was disassembled and the Asset himself had seen the Triskelion fall, but if you cut off one head then two more grow in its place -

The Asset feels like he is drowning. He is back in the tube and the ice and he is on the table and he is hanging by his ankles and there is water pouring on his face and he cannot breathe, he is on his knees clawing at his throat -

“Hey. Hey! Stop! Oh shit, Jesus, _fuck—_ _fuck—_ hey. Hey. Can you hear me?”

There is someone in front of him with a deep voice and a slight build and now there is a warm hand on his flesh one. The Asset tries to move away—he is not allowed gentle touches—his hands are only meant for killing and blood and shooting—but the hand stays, grasping slightly.

“Hey, come on. Come on. Okay. Breathe with me. Come on. See my chest? Take a breath with me. Yeah. In. Slow. Okay. Okay. I’m gonna count. One...two...hey, yeah, keep breathing. One...two...three…”

Something about this is familiar. He has been through this process before. With Steve. Steve did this before, only a few minutes before, in the bathroom when the Asset was cleaning his weapons. Steve had his hot pink mat and the Asset had had a knife. Steve had called it a _panic attack_. The Asset thinks: _battle fatigue._

“Come on. Take another breath. Yeah, that’s it. Get some air. Follow my count. One...two...three...four...five…”

The Asset obeys. His breath slows. His heart stops trying to beat its way out of his chest. He gulps in air.

Then, suddenly, acid rises up in the back of his throat. He stumbles towards the bathroom, clutching his stomach, and manages to crouch in front of the toilet before he retches violently. Half-digested eggs and waffle spew into the toilet bowl. The smell is sickening. He reaches up with his metal hand and flushes it away, taking a heaving breath.

“Hey,” says Steve quietly. He is hovering near the door of the bathroom, holding out a water bottle toward the Asset. “Here.”

The Asset nearly crushes the bottle with his metal fingers as he unscrews the lid; his flesh hand is shaking too much to complete the task. He tips the water down his throat like a desperate man in a desert. His face feels hot and there is pressure behind his eyes. _Tears_. He blinks them away.

A heavy silence settles. Steve sighs and slides down to the floor, his back against the door frame and his knees pulled up to his chest. He rests his elbows on knobby knees and rubs his face with his palms. The Asset pushes his back against the bathtub, curling his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them defensively. He listens to his pulse, steady and strong, and stares at the little patch of carpet visible in the doorway underneath Steve’s feet

“You don’t have to stay in the bathroom.” says Steve after a few moments. “Unless you want to, I mean. If you’d feel safer under the desk or...by the wall, or—or something, you can sit there too.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, and turns his head to face the Asset, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. The Asset darts a glance upward, momentarily thrown by the bright sky blue of Steve’s eyes. Steve’s voice has a hint of a drawl that rocks the Asset’s memory.

Steve continues, “I don’t like bullies. And that guy in the alley, he was a real piece of work, a real asshole to you and the girls. I’d guess that whoever he was working for wasn’t real nice to you either. So I..I’m going to help you till you can get back on your feet. I don’t have much money, but I’ll pick up a few extra shifts at Gabe’s and a few commissions too. And you can—you can rest here for’s long as you need. I guess my only request is that you not steal any money or destroy anything and that you help a bit around the house. And that you not attack me, obviously, or kill me or rape me. But I’m putting my trust in you that you won’t do that.”

He holds the Asset’s gaze for a few more moments. “I’m gonna wash the dishes and then we can see if you want to try eating something else when you’re ready to come out. You don’t have to, but I feel like it’d be good to get a bit of food in your stomach.” He rises from the floor with surprising grace, making his way toward the kitchen.

The Asset sits curled up on the floor, trying to make sense of Steve’s words. Steve shares the Asset’s mission: recover strength. Steve wants him to eat and rest. Make him eat. Make him rest. Steve is acting like a handler.  But a handler would give orders. A handler would slap and kick and laugh at him, and withhold food and drink to make him beg, and douse him with ice water to clean him and send him back to the tube or the Chair. Steve is good things, gentle touches and warm water and soft towels and the sunset and cooked - homemade—food. He is... _kind_. And not in a way that is meant to trick the Asset into pain and humiliation. He is...sincere.

_Kind. Kind. Steve is kind._

The word brings hot tears to the Asset’s eyes again. He blinks them back, swallowing noisily, and gulps down more water until the lump in his throat clears. Then he unfurls his limbs and silently stands at the bathroom doorway, watching Steve rinse the dishes and set them into a drying rack that had appeared on the counter.

Steve turns to face the Asset as he dries his hands on a dish towel. “How’s your stomach doing?”

The Asset pauses, considers the gnawing hunger. “It is—it is empty. It requires sustenance.”

“Sustenance. Okay. Do you think you’ll be able to keep down some toast?”

The Asset nods slightly.

“Okay. Two pieces of toast, coming right up.” Steve shoves some bread into the toaster and leans against the counter, eyeing the Asset. “So, if you’re going to be staying here for a while, I’m going to need to call you something. You got a name that you prefer to use?”

The Asset frowns. The Asset has no name. But Steve had asked for a name that the Asset _prefers_. The Asset cannot think of many names. _Sasha_ from the Black Widow. _Dog, Asset, Winter Soldier, Soldat_ from the many handlers he has had in the many decades he has lived. There is something farther back in his memory, before the cold and the tube. Something involving rank and a number. _Sergeant. 325? 327? 38?_ The Asset cannot make sense of the sequence. He digs further back, scrabbling at scorched earth that the Chair has made of his mind.

He closes his eyes. He hears trains in the distance, distant laughter. The smell of coal and grit. There is the little girl with the brown curls again. Her head is pressed against his chest. He is wearing a uniform made of thick fabric. The girl is crying. _Becks_ , the Asset thinks. _Becca_. It is close, it sounds right somehow, but it is the little girl’s name, not his.

The answer dances away out of reach from his mind’s slippery grasp. He snarls and chases after it as if he is stalking a target. _B...bu...bu..._ but? Bud? Bug? Buzz? He runs through each iteration of the English consonants, discarding them. Bub buff bum bun but budge _buck_. Buck. Buck. _BUCKY._ He can see the wax letters on a sheet of thick paper, scrawled unevenly in childish handwriting. He knows, instinctively, that his hand—gone now, replaced by metal—is the one that made them.

He opens his eyes. Steve is leaning against the counter, holding very still, his eyes wide and trained on the Asset. _Bucky_. Not the Asset. _Bucky_.

He opens his mouth and rasps, “Bucky.”

Steve smiles. His face brightens like the sun rising over the city that Bucky had observed. “Hello, Bucky. I’m Steve. It’s nice to meet you. Your toast is done. ” He sets a plate down onto the counter, and the Asset takes it, resuming his position on the wall behind the desk. “If you’re still hungry afterward, let me know. Since the eggs didn’t stay down you’ll probably need some protein.” Steve scratched his head. “I’m out of protein bars but I was planning to get some groceries today anyway, so I’ll pick some up at the store. You sure you’re not allergic to anything?”

Bucky frowns, irritated, and crunches loudly on his toast. “I do not get allergic reactions,” he repeats with emphasis. He does not understand why Steve is asking him a second time.

“Okay, okay.” Steve’s brow furrows. “Last night. Were you the one who ate the plate I put out in the alley?”

“Yes.” Bucky thinks to leave it there, but something in his mind calls him to _use manners_. “Thank you.”

Steve smiles again. Something warm blooms in Bucky’s chest in response. “Anytime,” says Steve. “You want anything else to eat? I’ve got two eggs left, some pickles, and a couple of slices of fake American cheese. Oh, and a couple of apples..”

“An apple,” says Bucky after a long moment. “Please.”

“With peanut butter?”

“Yes. Please.”

Steve grins and turns around, twisting upward to retrieve a jar of peanut butter and a spoon from the cabinet.

The apple is sweet and crisp on Bucky’s tongue. It brings back an echo of a memory, something with flour and ovens and syrup. He cannot place it. He spoons the peanut butter onto the fruit under Steve’s instructions so that he can intake some protein. When he has finished, he places the core into the garbage can and rinses his hands at the kitchen sink.

Bucky feels uncertain suddenly. He turns to Steve, half-awaiting another order or task. Steve looks back at him, taking the last sip of his second cup of coffee.

“I’m going to get dressed and go to the store before it gets too crowded,” says Steve. “It’s just a couple of blocks away. You can go with me or you can stay here. Whatever you want to do.”

“Stay here.” The answer comes to him more easily than the previous night. Outside means people, HYDRA agents disguised as civilians, surveillance, open air, easy shots. HYDRA may be dissembled for now, but HYDRA will never stop looking for its Asset. And Steve does not deserve to be in the line of fire.

“Okay.” Steve shifts, his cheeks reddening. He looks embarrassed. “I don’t have much in the way of entertainment. I had to sell my TV a while ago when I fell on hard times. I’ve got a laptop and an internet connection if you’d like to look at YouTube or something, and I’ve got some books you’re welcome to read. Oh, and the yoga mat. You can use it to work out.”

He jerks his head toward the hot pink mat. “Sorry about the color. It was free. It actually belonged to my friend Trish, but she didn’t want it, said she was trying to shed her childhood image. Um. And I have drawing pencils and a sketch pad, if you’d like to do some of that. I mostly use that for work, though.”

Bucky blinks and takes a moment to sort through the options. Steve did not mention that tablet: it must be precious to him and he does not want the Asset to use it. Perhaps it contains secrets or intelligence of some sort. No matter. The laptop has the most utility. He can check for updates on the Avengers and do research on the echoes in his head. He doubts that Steve’s laptop has the capability to hack into any particular databases, but he feels that would be too risky regardless; he does not want to draw anyone to this place. He cannot remember the last time he read a book and thinks that it may be a pleasant experience. And he can certainly run through some exercises using the mat, despite the garish color. “These will suffice,” he declares.

“Okay,” says Steve, a hint of relief in his voice. “I’m going to get dressed and then I’ll set up the laptop for you and pull out a couple of books.”

Bucky takes the mat from the opposite wall and spreads it out behind the desk chair. He wonders for the first time why Steve does not have blinds. Then he could use the open space more efficiently without worrying about cover. Still, there is something pleasant and calming about the sunlight flooding the room and casting shadows across the desk. Bucky has gathered from Steve’s hints that Steve is some kind of artist in addition to a worker at a restaurant. Light and shadow is probably important for his work.

Steve emerges from the bedroom. He wears fitted jeans and a black T-shirt with big silver letters: “GUNS’N’ROSES.” Bucky frowns at the strange association, then shrugs to himself. He notes the wallet tucked into Steve’s left pocket and the keys and inhaler tucked into the other. Hanging off his arm is a dark blue backpack with a circular pin. The pin consists of a white star in a circle of blue, with concentric red and white circles around it. It is an unusual design and Bucky wonders if it means something. In Steve’s arms he cradles a laptop, a power cord, and a couple of paperbacks from the bookshelf. _I, Robot_ is the title of the one on top.

“Okay. I’ve set up a guest account for the laptop.” Steve puts the laptop on the counter and opens up, clicking. “You should have access to wifi and everything. There are outlets in the living room near the armchair and one near the toaster. You’ll probably need to plug in the power cord after 30 minutes since the laptop’s old and doesn’t have a lot of battery life. Please don’t visit anywhere sketchy and download a virus. I need this laptop for work sometimes and I’d be very upset if I lost it. If you want to watch porn or stream something weird, use Firefox, I’ve got adblockers and some more protection on that browser. Oh, and the wifi password is on the router which is behind the armchair if it disconnects.” Steve breathes out with a frown. “Do you have a cell phone?”

“No,” says Bucky.

“Okay.” Steve clicks around on his laptop. “How about an email address?”

“No.”

“Okay. Right.” Steve’s brow furrows. “How about this. I’ll set up a Gmail account for you so you can use the google chat to call me or video call me if you need.  I’ve got that app on my phone. Here, come take a look.”

Bucky approaches Steve slowly and squints at the laptop screen. Steve has created an account called “thealleypanther0310@gmail.com” .

“The alley panther?” Bucky reads out slowly. He resists the urge to raise an eyebrow.

Steve flushes. “Look. I thought you might’ve been a cat yesterday, okay? And you move like a panther. Fast, hidden, wearing all black. Anyway, remember this account and if you need to log back in, go to gmail.com. Password is  G-A-B-E-B-B-Q-4-F, all capital letters except the number four.” Steve navigates to the sidebar and hovers over the name “Steve Rogers,” which opens up a window with the name “Steve Rogers” in bigger font, a picture of Steve’s sketch of the Washington Monument and his email address (steven.grant.rogers@gmail.com). Steve clicks on his name and a window pops up in the in lower right hand corner of the screen. “You can click on the little video camera icon or the telephone icon and it’ll call me,” Steve points out. “I shouldn’t be gone too long, though. Maybe an hour and a half at most.”

Bucky nods, thinks he should say something. “Thank you.”

Steve grins distractedly, slinging the empty backpack on his shoulders and lacing up his shoes. “Are you going to be okay being locked in?” he asks, turning around fully. His voice was full of concern. “I mean, if it’s an emergency, of course you should leave, but I just mean - this neighborhood’s not always so great and I try to make sure the locks are in place, you know? To protect the neighbors. I’m the youngest one here, the rest of the neighbors are elderly, and I just feel like it’s my responsibility to make sure the building is safe. And uh. I don't have spare keys to give you.”

“I will stay here,” says Bucky. He mulls over Steve’s concern. “The locks will not bother me. I have been...kept in much tighter spaces.”

Steve’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline at the last statement. “Oh. Okay. Well, feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge and pantry. The water bottles are under the sink, by the way. And uh.” Steve takes a deep breath. “Call me if you feel like you’re getting another panic attack or if you feel ill, all right? I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

Bucky feels overwhelmed at the open worry on Steve’s face. “I will alert you if I feel ill,” he parrots. The words don’t sound quite right, and unbidden, a drawl comes into his voice as he says, “Go on, then, y’don’t need to worry ‘bout me. I can handle a coupla hours all by my lonesome.”

Steve gapes at him. “Are you from Brooklyn too?” he asks. “I grew up there.”

“I—I don’t know.” Bucky’s face feels hot. “I can’t—remember.”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Okay. I—I’ve gotta go to the store now. We can talk about this later. If you want, I mean."

Bucky’s chest feels tight as he nods. Steve glances at him once, grins a little, and then heads out the door. Bucky listens to the double locks turning and drops his elbows to the counter, breathing slowly past the rush of echoes in his head.

When he has calmed, he opens up the browser on Steve’s laptop and types in: “Avengers Triskelion.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Hope on Fire](https://youtu.be/L3Ua5DBj6Hw) by Vienna Teng.
> 
> On dreamwidth as [dragongirlG](https://dragongirlg.dreamwidth.org/). Please come say hello. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please feel free to let me know. :-)


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